


The Stars Always Make Me Laugh

by boomerbird10



Category: NCIS
Genre: Angsty but ultimately soft, Character Death, F/M, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Ziva's journals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25759585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boomerbird10/pseuds/boomerbird10
Summary: A year to the day after Ziva departs D.C. to return to Paris and reunite with her family, her newfound contentment is shaken by an unexpected loss. Tony and Tali are right where they belong—safely by her side—but she still finds herself feeling drawn to reflect on the past. She might just be able to use this new grief to bring peace to old wounds, renewing hope along the way for a future with her family... but only if she can find a way to let go of what haunts her.
Relationships: Ziva David/Anthony DiNozzo
Comments: 13
Kudos: 40





	1. The News

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a combined response to two different challenge prompts. This will be chapter one of four, plus a short epilogue.

"And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me. And you will sometimes open your window, so, for that pleasure… And your friends will be properly astonished to see you laughing as you look up at the sky! Then you will say to them, 'Yes, the stars always make me laugh!'"

—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, _The Little Prince_

* * *

**January 7th, 2021**

It's a Thursday morning when Tony gets the call.

He's working from home today, and he's nearing the end of a video conference when his phone buzzes—he looks down to check it and sees his favorite unflattering photo of Tim McGee on the screen. Paris is six hours ahead of Washington, where McGee presumably still is, which makes it… hmm. It's four in the morning there. He's probably not reaching out for a casual chat, then.

Something tells him to take the call.

"Sorry to be rude," Tony says quickly in French, looking back at his computer screen, "but there's an emergency I have to deal with. Let's go ahead and wrap this up for today and we'll talk progress next week, same time as usual—Félix, go ahead and email me that report, if you can. I'll check in when I'm back at the office tomorrow. Have a good morning, all of you."

Then he abruptly ends the conference; he cares very little if he comes across as impolite, because his thoroughly French team has always seen him as a hopelessly crass American anyway.

Tony hits a button on his cell, catching the call just before it would have gone to voicemail. "Why, if it isn't Tim-Tim-Timothy McGee!" he cries, jovial as usual even though he's a little apprehensive about the nature of the unexpected conversation. "What can I do for you?"

"Hey, Tony." McGee sounds tired, which is little wonder given the time difference. "Do you have a moment to talk?"

"Sure," Tony agrees, dropping the slightly mocking enthusiasm from his tone. "What's up?"

"I don't know how to tell you this, so I'm just going to say it, okay?"

"...okay."

"There was an accident last night, and—"

"Who?" Tony can read between the lines—he doesn't have to hear the word "death" to understand that someone he knows has passed away.

"It was Ducky."

* * *

Tony is on the phone with McGee for another fifteen minutes, getting all the details and committing them to memory as best as he can through his slight haze of shock. Though Ducky had always been the oldest member of their team and clearly couldn't live forever, he had seemed… invincible, somehow. He was an _institution_ , something timeless and never-ending.

Of course, that had been an illusion, but still, it's strange to know that the vibrant old man is now just…

Gone.

The rest of the workday is spent processing all of this new information and making preparations. Tony can't imagine a world in which they wouldn't fly back to the States to attend the funeral, and though he hasn't yet talked to Ziva about it, he feels fairly comfortable arranging emergency bereavement leave from work and informing Tali's school that she'll be out next week.

Near the end of the call, McGee had asked if Tony wanted him to call Ziva, too, or if Tony wanted to tell her himself. Tony's answer was immediate: he knew without needing to stop and consider that telling Ziva in person would be the right thing to do.

It doesn't matter how much he hates having to give bad news.

Tony intends to do it tonight, once his wife is home from work… she has experienced too much loss in her life for him to be anything less than absolutely gentle in telling her about their old friend. There's no need to make it harder than it needs to be; an impersonal phone call across the Atlantic may have been an inevitability for Tony himself, but now that he knows, he wants to be there to hold Ziva's hand when she finds out, too.

He would give anything to spare her from as much pain as possible, and while he can't do much, he _can_ do this.

Fortunately, the timing of McGee's call is decent—Tali has choir practice after school today, effectively speeding up the rest of the evening's schedule. By the time Ziva gets home, it'll nearly be dinner time, and bedtime will follow shortly after.

Tony doesn't want to delay giving Ziva the news, but he thinks it best to wait until Tali is safely tucked away. That way, they don't have to worry about putting on happy faces to keep from scaring her.

* * *

As soon as Ziva walks in the door, she can tell that something is wrong. Tony looks tired or sad, or maybe both. He kisses her in greeting as usual, though, and when she gives him a questioning look, he answers with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. _Later_ , she understands that to mean.

Ziva is concerned, but she trusts him.

Still, Tony seems eager to rush through Tali's evening routine, telling Ziva her unsettled feeling isn't merely a product of her typical anxiety… she's right, and something has happened or is happening still.

If she was Gibbs, she'd claim a gut feeling.

"Tony, is everything alright?" Ziva asks in a low, tense voice once Tali's bedroom door is shut for the night.

Tony shakes his head. "Let's go sit," he answers softly.

He leads her to the couch and she sits next to him automatically, her heart starting to race in a horribly familiar way. "Please just tell me, whatever it is," she murmurs anxiously.

Tony takes her hand. "Alright." His voice is gentle. "Just don't forget to breathe, Ziva, okay? I got a call from McGee today, and he had some bad news. Ducky was in an accident last night… he passed away this morning."

Ziva's pulse is thudding in her ears, and she focuses on the grounding anchor of Tony's hand on hers as she tries to internalize what he just told her. "An accident?" she echoes, sounding distant even to herself.

"Yeah…" Tony shakes his head and unexpectedly gives a quiet, incredulous laugh. The sound pulls Ziva out of her head a little, and she makes a conscious effort to squeeze his hand back as she waits for details.

He gives her a warm smile, recognizing the gesture.

"Honestly, it was the 'Duckiest' way that he could have died, I think," Tony explains. "He had apparently been out in Newfoundland exploring some continental fault thing, and on the way back, his plane hit some bad weather and ended up crashing. Palmer says it was very quick—Ducky never would have felt a thing."

Ziva nods, slightly faint but quickly getting over her shock. With any luck, she'll avoid a full-blown anxiety attack; the frequency of the attacks has decreased since she reunited with her family a year ago, but they'll always be a threat that she has to be prepared for.

Tony seems to understand that she's not quite ready to talk yet, so he keeps going. "There are worse ways to go, for sure, and I think Ducky would have wanted to spend his last minutes just as he did: coming from from an adventure in a tiny two-seater Bonanza. You know what I mean?"

"Yes… yes, I am sure you are right," she agrees, her voice steadier.

"I'm really glad that we got to see him recently, too. We had a good time, didn't we?"

"We did." A few months back, Ducky'd had a daylong layover in Paris on a trip to a remote area of Siberia, and they'd spent a very fun day showing him around the city. Their daughter had warmed to him quickly, which was hardly surprising.

"Hopefully Tali was old enough that she'll remember it, I think."

"Yes."

Tony pauses, and with his free hand, he reaches up to briefly caress his wife's cheek. "Are you alright?" he questions, concerned. "You're not saying much. I don't want you to pass out on me."

"I am—" Ziva stops in the middle of her sentence and takes two deep breaths. She had nearly said ' _fine_ ', but she's not, is she?

Ziva likes to think that she can be open and honest with Tony these days, as much as a lifetime of trials has given her the impulse to keep things to herself. The fact that Tony waits patiently for her to finish rather than interrupting tells her that she's right—she shouldn't shut him out.

Finally coming to a decision, she shakes her head. "No."

Tony nods. "I thought that might be the case."

"Are you?"

"Alright?"

"Yes."

"No. No, I'm really not. But I will be."

Tony's words suddenly pull a memory to the forefront of Ziva's mind, and she tilts her head for a moment, considering something.

Tony waits, a slight frown furrowing his brow.

"Come," Ziva decides finally. "There is something that I want to show you."

* * *

A few minutes later, a bemused Tony watches from the doorway as Ziva digs determinedly through a box in the back of their bedroom closet. He knows what's in that box, and he knows that several identical boxes stacked neatly in the corner contain more of the same: Ziva's old journals from NCIS, dozens of them thoughtfully shipped to Paris by Ellie Bishop.

"Are you looking for one in particular?"

"Yes," Ziva answers, but she doesn't explain any further. After a few more seconds, she makes a noise of triumph and rises with one of the journals in hand.

"Found it?"

"I did."

She leads him back to the bedroom and sits on the bed, inviting him to sit next to her; Tony is relieved to see that while she definitely looks pained and tired, there are no obvious signs of an impending anxiety attack.

Once they're settled, Ziva gently—almost lovingly—pats the cover of the thin book. "This is one of my journals from late 2009 until early 2010."

"That's—"

"Shortly after I was rescued from the desert, yes."

Tony nods; it's not his favorite time to think about, and he knows it can't be for Ziva, either—so why did she pull this notebook in particular from the dozens of identical ones chronicling her experiences?

"Ducky was… helpful to me, in the aftermath of my rescue."

"He was?" Tony interjects in surprise. "You've never talked about that before."

"It is not a subject that I deeply enjoy discussing, something I am sure you can understand."

"Sure."

"Well, because I believe that sharing this memory will honor Ducky, I would like to tell you more about what he did for me."

"Are you sure?"

Ziva nods, and she keeps the journal clutched lovingly in one hand as she reaches over to lay a hand on Tony's thigh. "It has been a long time, and I think I am ready." She offers a smile—it's small and watery, but it's very sincere, and something about it makes Tony's own eyes start to sting.

He's been too busy to cry today, but he knows it's coming sooner or later. Ducky had been family for a very long time, and with this on top of that loss...

"Okay," he agrees roughly, clearing his throat. "Take it away. I'm all ears."

Ziva squeezes his thigh and then pulls her hand away, glancing down at the journal; this one will always be one she cares for above its brethren, because its painful content reminds her of how much she has overcome.

After a pause, Ziva opens it carefully.

Then, her voice surprisingly steady, she starts to read.

* * *

_January 7th, 2010_

_There is a reason that I have not penned an entry in quite some time; I have walked a difficult road these past months. Today, however, I was offered a comfort that I had not previously possessed the courage to ask for. If I have any hope of sorting through my own thoughts on the matter, though, I need to reconsider earlier events._

_Before returning to Mossad more than half a year ago, I was faced with a dilemma that I had successfully avoided in my career before that point_ — _that is, the dilemma of who to trust and who to side with when personal and professional obligations become hopelessly conflicted. I have already written at length about the choices I and the others made in the midst of that conflict._

_Much has happened since then, but recent forced introspection has shown me an important connection between the difficulties of Michael's death and the horrors I endured after: a connection between who I was then and who I am now. That night, it only took a few minutes to change the course of my life: in that time, Tony and Michael fought, and Michael was killed. Every single one of us has had to deal with the consequences of those events ever since._

_At the time, I let my anger and my grief consume me, destroying all vestiges of rationality in my thoughts and decisions. I followed that pain to the Horn of Africa, hurting and reckless and prepared for death._

_Of course, I did not die, and that has brought consequences of its own… consequences that I am only now beginning to come to terms with._

_In the wake of Michael's death and doubly so in the wake of my experiences in the desert camp, I found myself vulnerable. For the first time in my life, I'd been forced to acknowledge my heart and acknowledge its fragility. It could be bruised. It could humiliate me. These were things that frightened me, because I knew from recent experience that they could_ — _and likely would_ — _be used against me. My fear led me to withdraw, to hide again; acknowledging my own weakness demanded far less bravery than I would have needed to share that vulnerability with my friends._

 _I defaulted to an old defense mechanism. I leaned on ability borne of long experience to simply feign contentment. I passed my psychological evaluations, I sent my resignation to_ Abba _, and against all odds, I was instated as a probationary special agent at NCIS. After a time, my colleagues stopped watching me when they thought I could not see, waiting for me to fall apart. I had convinced them that I was alright; perhaps I even convinced myself some of the time, too. Maybe I was not yet as 'fine' as I seemed to be, but I was sure that in time, I would reach a point where my conscience felt as carefree as my forced smile looked to those who loved me._

_Darkness, however, is difficult to chase away with one single flickering candle, lit only by the flame of my own exhausted determination. My candle burned low, worn down over time, and I found myself in need of help. I alone could not summon the light that had long since fled my tired soul._

_Though I did not know to whom I should turn, fate helped a friend to find me. It was_ — _of all people_ — _Ducky. In many ways, he is something of a_ saba* _to me, the kind that I wished for as a child. Even so, I would not have thought to seek him out as a confidant. I see now how remiss I was in taking him for granted as I have sometimes done. It turns out that he was just who I needed._

_He found me this evening in the midst of… I do not know how to define what I was feeling. I can only say that I was lost in a moment of weakness. At the time, being seen that way was humiliating, but now, several hours later, it feels serendipitous._

_Ducky and I spoke quite candidly then… I will not record the details of the conversation here, because I feel in no danger of forgetting what was said. I am confident, however, that today marks something of a new beginning for me. There is still so much to sort through and process, but the shadows already feel less dim._

_Today, I invited a friend to see my darkness, and despite what he saw, he did not pity me; he only held my hand and lit another candle._

* * *

*saba = "grandfather" in Hebrew


	2. The Flashback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW: Descriptions of suicidal thoughts (but the chapter contains no actual acts of self-harm). Mentions (but no descriptions) of torture and rape/sexual assault. The flashback scene is in two parts, and for clarity, it's both dated and italicized.

**January 7th, 2021**

When she finishes reading, Ziva continues to stare down at her own handwriting for a moment, remembering bittersweet things. Then she shakes herself to look up at Tony.

His expression makes her chest feel tight.

He's watching her with equal measures of concern and love; there's a hint of empathetic heartache visible in his face, too. Everything about him is so soft, though, so tender, that she briefly wishes that she hadn't read him the entry at all. He seems almost breakable now—like one careless word could hurt him.

She knows that Tony was already aware of her journals' existence, but to be present as she read an excerpt about one of her darkest days… That has to have been nearly as difficult for him to hear as it was for her to speak aloud.

Then he takes her hand again, though, and Ziva knows something instinctively: despite his grief for what she's gone through, he's nothing but glad that she told him more about it.

"We wondered if you really were as okay as you seemed to be," he tells her quietly, and then he pauses to tug her closer and drop a kiss to her forehead. "All of us did. But…"

Tony sighs, and Ziva does, too.

"I guess I was always afraid to ask anything too probing about what happened, or about how you felt. I didn't want to remind you of things you'd rather forget."

Ziva nods, and she gently pulls her hand from his grasp to wrap her arm around his waist instead. "I know," she assures him, leaning in so that her forehead lands on his shoulder. "I took great pains to keep you from asking."

Guilt is not the reaction she had expected from him, and she wishes he could understand that she doesn't blame him at all...

For anything.

Tony rests his cheek against the top of her head. "Still, if you had come to me at any point... I would have listened. You know that, right?"

"Of _course_ I do," Ziva promises firmly. "In fact, I know that any of you would have dropped everything to be there for me… If it was not Ducky, it could have just as easily been you, or McGee, or Gibbs. I do not think I fully understood at the time how cared for I was—how cared for I know I still am."

Tony doesn't answer, but he hugs her more tightly. When she feels his body jerk slightly, she looks up, and she understands the incredible tenderness he showed her moments ago—because now she feels it, too. He's not crying, but he looks close to it.

The raw emotion on display makes Ziva want to cradle him and protect him from harm.

He's a grown man—most of the time, anyway—and actually, he's older than she is. Why, then, does she have this undeniable urge to shield him at _all_ costs, just as she would for Tali—who _is_ young, fragile, and in need of that care?

He can take care of himself, but that hardly matters.

Unlike Ziva, Tony has long since given up trying to hide his feelings. In fact, since the moment he murmured "I'm fighting for you, Ziva," in her family's old olive orchard, she has never once seen him look at her with anything less than total honesty.

Why is it so hard for her to do the same, even after all these years?

She's better about it than she used to be, for sure, and she genuinely _tries_ to be open with him… but every time she opens her mouth, ready to admit to something deeply personal, she remembers Sahar promising to hunt down their daughter. She remembers Saleem explaining with an evil, subdued kind of glee that one captive will talk and the other will die—and she remembers insisting at once that Tony tell Saleem what he wants to hear; let her be killed in his place.

Even back in adolescence, long before death and secrets became the tools of Ziva's trade, she learned that terrorism is an effective tool for the same reason that taking hostages is. The baby sister that she loved more than anyone in the world was in the wrong place at the wrong time... and in the space of a single second—no, less than that!—someone who had never even met Tali ripped away her innocent life.

Again and again, Ziva has been taught the same painful lesson, and it's one she finds hard to forget...

Love can be used as a _devastating_ weapon.

"Ziva?"

"Mm?"

"Did you hear me?"

"I am sorry, I did not. I was… lost and fraught, I suppose."

That earns her a small smile. "I think you mean 'lost in thought.'"

"Maybe I meant a little of both."

Tony lets out a breath of a laugh and snuggles her closer again. "Maybe," he agrees. "But anyway, I asked if you were comfortable telling me anything else about your talk with Ducky."

Ziva hesitates, and Tony must sense it, because he immediately backtracks. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't ask for more than you're willing to tell me. It's fine, seriously, I just—"

"Tony?"

"Mm?"

"Hush. Please."

He does.

Ziva pulls away for a second time, but it's only to set aside her journal and reach up to catch his face between gentle hands. Tony relaxes almost immediately, reassured by her light touch, and she lifts her face to kiss him. "That conversation is not something that I am trying to hide from you, Tony… or at least not _exactly_ that," she murmurs when she pulls back again. "But it is something that I am afraid you do not really want to hear about."

"I always want to hear. No matter what."

"You say that now, but…"

"But what?"

"Some things would horrify you, I think, or break your heart. I do not know which is worse."

Tony lowers his forehead to hers. "Either way, sign me up. One horrified broken heart, coming my way."

His tone has taken on a hint of teasing, lightening the mood a little. Ziva knows that he's serious, though, and she loves him all the more for it. "Alright," she concedes. "That night, like many nights before it, I was unable to sleep…"

* * *

_**January 7th, 2010** _

_Ziva stands alone in the dark, feeling as if she's underwater; her limbs are slow and heavy, weighing her down so much that movement is nigh-on impossible._

_It's very late, though she can't say with any certainty what time it is. Time has ceased to mean very much to her anyway… It's all she can do to traverse her day-to-day life without losing her mind as it is, so keeping track feels pointless._

_Tonight is just one more difficult night, the most recent in a long string of sleepless evenings and days full of shallow happiness. In total, she has spent over three months now feeling lost, feeling vulnerable, feeling broken._

_Tonight might be the last night of that._

_Her endless wandering has this evening brought her back to work—and not for the first time. She often winds up here, where the distraction of work and reminders of friendship give her periods of peace. That's why the nights are hardest; during the day, the distractions come organically, and she doesn't have to invent things to fill the time._

_Tonight, though, paperwork did little to calm her buzzing thoughts, so she abandoned the bullpen just as she had abandoned her apartment hours before. Then, walking with no destination in mind, she found herself coming to a stop in the center of the autopsy room; she has now been standing silently in the same spot for a quarter of an hour._

_The hum of refrigerators is soothing; it doesn't bother her that there are bodies stored within, just out of sight._

_In fact, her loudest thought is a desire to simply join them; it must be peaceful to be dead._

_She holds a scalpel in her hand, uncertain of when she picked it up. Its metallic surface glints faintly in the dimness, reflecting a monitor light from one of the fridges. The blade looks sharp, Ziva thinks, though that impression is slow to filter into consciousness; her thoughts feel as delayed as her movements._

_She is really and truly exhausted, worn to the bone by an invisible war, and she has lost the ability to outrun the ghosts that chase her._

_Maybe it's time to stop trying._

_Everyone believes that she has moved on, recovered, and they have done so themselves, too. She has been left behind of her own design, and no one knows._

_She alone is trapped in the past._

_In Mossad, Ziva was trained again and again on ways to kill. Her anatomy knowledge is extensive, and it would be so easy to flick her wrist and slice an artery in her arm or her neck… It would be_ too _easy, really._

_In minutes, the never-ending thoughts of pain and captivity would be silenced, and she would lie entirely still on the floor, never to move again._

Too easy.

_After tonight, she'll never know whether she could have brought herself to take the action she considered then, because at that moment, something pulls her sharply from her deliberations._

" _Ziva?"_

_She whips around, reflexes and adrenaline reminding tired limbs how to move, and she sees Ducky standing in the doorway. He's backlit by the lights of the hall, paused mid-step in a way that tells Ziva he was just as startled to see her as she is to see him._

" _Ducky," she acknowledges quickly, her heart racing._

" _What on earth are you doing here in the dark?"_

_The medical examiner finally leaves the entryway and walks into autopsy, flicking the overhead fluorescents on as the doors swish shut behind him._

" _I—"_

_Trained to lie and trained to think on her feet, Ziva—for once—has no answer. She's too weak and too empty to summon a quick lie with which to cover herself. Instead, she opens her mouth and closes it twice, probably resembling a goldfish._

_Ducky pulls his hat off and hangs it up, giving her a moment to compose herself before approaching. "Are you alright?" His voice is now less surprised and more cautious—it's like he's afraid of spooking her._

_Maybe he's right to be._

" _I…"_

_With slow and non-threatening movements, Ducky reaches forward to gently take Ziva's wrist; she flinches but doesn't stop him. "What were you planning to do with this, my dear girl?" As he speaks, soft and grim as if he knows the answer already, he delicately plucks the scalpel from Ziva's loose grasp._

_Ziva doesn't resist, but she also doesn't answer. She's deeply ashamed of what she was considering when he found her, and there's nothing she can do to take back what he saw._

" _Oh, Ziva…"_

_When Ducky holds out his hand again—the scalpel having disappeared into his pocket—it is this time only an offer for comfort and companionship. For several long beats, Ziva doesn't know how to respond; she has kept her emotions so tightly locked away for so long now that the uncertainty of having them thrust out in the open is overwhelming._

_Ducky waits patiently, though, and once Ziva has gathered all the courage she still possesses, she looks up into his kind old face._

_Then she takes his offered hand and starts to cry._

* * *

_In the end, Ducky settles Ziva into his desk chair and quickly fetches a second chair from the storage room for himself, dismissing Ziva's protests. Instead of sitting in it, though, he merely positions it to his liking before bustling away again; Ziva thinks she has never met someone less inclined to act their own age, except perhaps Shmeil._

_She watches, calmer now and increasingly bemused as Ducky unearths an electric kettle, two mugs, teabags, and a pot of sugar from within his desk drawers. He catches her watching and gives her a charming grin_ — _it's wordless but accompanied by a shrug and a wink so eloquent that words are entirely unnecessary. 'Many years in America have not taken the Scot out of me,' he seems to be saying._

_While he works, he starts to hum to himself, and Ziva understands what he's doing. He's giving her a chance to gather her thoughts, to decide what—if anything—she wants to say to him._

_She tries to do just that._

_By the time she has been handed a steaming cup of darjeeling, Ziva has come to the conclusion that perhaps it is time to tell someone everything. She can hardly continue keeping up the act she's been projecting for months… Her elderly friend is entirely too intelligent to discount what he's just seen._

_Ducky finally comes to a rest on his own chair a few feet away and takes a sip of his tea, humming in contentment. "Now that we are settled and comfortable and not milling about aimlessly like young Mr. Palmer is so fond of doing," he says lightly, "we can finally have a proper conversation."_

_Ziva nods, considering how to begin._

_Ducky only watches her struggle for a moment before taking that uncomfortable decision out of her hands. "If you would be so kind, I would enjoy hearing the story of how you came to end up in my autopsy room at—" He pauses to check his watch, "_ — _3:15 in the morning. I'm sure the tale is riveting."_

 _To Ziva, he sounds entirely polite, almost disinterested, and that draws out a slight smile. She supposes his question is simple enough to answer. "I often have trouble falling asleep, and when I_ do _sleep, I wake up often. Tonight, I could not stand to stare at my bedroom ceiling any longer, so I came here."_

" _To a deserted basement?"_

" _First to my desk, but when paperwork could not hold my attention… yes. I wandered down here."_

" _Because…?"_

" _Because…" Ziva looks away, ashamed again, and her words die in her throat. Something about this whole situation that should have felt absurd before certainly starts to feel that way now... What was she_ doing _? What is she doing now?_

_What has become of her, and what will become of her after tonight?_

_All at once, it's like a dam bursts, and Ziva starts to talk uncontrollably. Everything she has been holding back is coming out whether she wants it to or not._

_Rather than directly answering Ducky's question, she starts to talk about Michael Rivkin—something she did not plan to do at all. That leads to the fight that her apartment, and Michael's death, and her instant development of a searing hatred for Tony DiNozzo. Then comes Israel, and her father, and feelings of fury at a deep injustice that rose in her throat like bile and stayed there until she could not contain them._

_Then comes the ultimatum she gave Gibbs on the tarmac, the feeling of her stomach dropping as she watched the team's plane depart without her, and the uncharacteristic and unexpected urge to behave wildly and recklessly that followed at once… and the father that saw that urge and exploited it for his own gain._

_Ziva talks herself hoarse, and rather than interrupting, Ducky merely lifts his own teacup, reminding her that she's holding one, too. She looks down, dazed by her own soliloquy, and then lifts the mug to her lips and swallows all the liquid it holds, not once stopping to breathe. She barely tastes the tea that has long since gone cold, but it fortifies her slightly nonetheless._

_Then, afraid that her urge to speak will expire before she can expel these things that have festered inside her for months, Ziva picks up where she left off._

_She talks about the Damocles and the massacre that took place once they reached the Arabian Sea—at this point, it hardly matters that Ducky already knows this part of the story. If she starts to censor herself now or think too deeply about what she's saying, her momentum will be lost and she will never finish telling her story…_

_And it is very, very clear to her now that she_ must _tell her story in its entirety, at least once._

_She explains that her will to live had evaporated by the time she and Malachi reached Mogadishu, and that sending him home was a conscious decision to commit to her own impending death. Then she describes her sandy ride across the desert, the hired driver and guide she killed, and the fierce, bloody triumph that ultimately coursed through her veins as she fought to get the upper hand in a battle against too many enemies._

_She knew she'd lose, and she was ready for the moment someone took her out; it would have been a good way to die. That is not how things went, though._

_Now, she begins to speak more quickly, the words burning her throat and her tongue, because she has reached the worst part of the story—the part that she has never spoken aloud, and may never speak aloud again. She details the horror of being taken captive rather than shot; of being beaten and thrown in a cell where she was denied food and water for days; of being interrogated and tortured in turns, her only small consolation being a stubborn refusal to talk; of being assaulted and raped, leaving her feeling less than human; of being kept alive when all she prayed for was an end to her hellish existence._

_But then…_

_Then she speaks of the disbelief and wonder she felt when the hood was ripped away from her face and she looked into the eyes of Tony DiNozzo, the absolute last person she ever expected to see again. She explains that she had for months stopped feeling anything at all—but that the next fifteen minutes saw her cycling through sharp flashes of fear, gratitude, guilt, shocked elation, and finally, when all was said and done, a deep and permanent feeling of loyalty. Really, they had deserved her loyalty all along, these silly Americans that went to such extraordinary lengths to rescue her against all odds and against all reason._

_The only thing left to say then is how her bottled up memories and emotions led her to stand in autopsy this morning, contemplating suicide. After that, having finally answered Ducky's question, Ziva falls silent, feeling a very different kind of exhaustion than she felt earlier._

_By now, she has spent well over an hour talking constantly—it's far more than she has said at once in a very long time, perhaps ever. She isn't sure yet whether she's glad for her sudden rush of candor… or whether she's not._

_Ducky waits to make sure she's done before saying anything at all, and when he does speak, his words make Ziva's breath catch in her throat. "You are far stronger than your father ever gave you credit for being," he tells her, sincerity evident in every word._

_Suddenly, Ziva wants to cry again, but Ducky isn't done._

" _...and you do not give_ yourself _enough credit for your unshakable resilience," he adds kindly._

 _That_ does _make Ziva's tears start to spill over once more, and Ducky rises to find tissues. When he comes back, he hands her a box of them, and he gives her the courtesy of letting her fiddle with them as he speaks. Having somewhere neutral to look and having something mindless to do with her hands makes it easier to listen without getting overwhelmed again._

" _I understand, my dear girl, that you have endured far more than anyone should have to. You have been dealt a cruel hand over and over again, and for that, I'm so very sorry. You deserve every happiness in the world! I'm certain that every one of your friends would fiercely agree… so why do you feel so compelled to face your problems without their help?"_

_Ziva shrugs uncomfortably, still sniffling slightly and meticulously picking apart a tissue with her fingers. "I do not know," she admits._

_Then Ducky says something that shocks Ziva enough to make her look up at him—he's smiling at her, both amused and incredulous. The Hebrew word he just used loosely translates to… well, bullshit._

" _You are incredibly intelligent," Ducky insists once he has her full attention. "I truly believe you know the answer—even if you might not want to admit to it."_

_Ziva frowns, wiping her eyes. "What do you want me to say, Ducky?"_

" _That depends, young Ziva! What do_ you _want_ _to say?"_

" _Are you telling me that I have trust issues, or—or—"_

" _Well, do you?"_

" _No!" Ziva protests indignantly, but then she stops. "Maybe."_

" _Maybe, but maybe not," Ducky says cryptically. "Do you want to know what I think?"_

" _Will you still tell me, even if I say no?"_

_Ducky chuckles. "Ah, I knew the old Ziva was still in there somewhere! Yes, I will tell you, and I want you to listen to me: I don't think that you are afraid to trust your friends… you are afraid, rather, to trust yourself."_

" _That does not make sense," Ziva argues._

" _Doesn't it? Think about it for a moment, please. What would happen if you told Anthony—for example—what you just told me? He would worry about you and he would do his best to help. You said it yourself mere moments ago: he and Timothy and Jethro went to incredible lengths to follow you into the Guban Desert. You could not push them away now, no matter what you told them, and I think you know that."_

" _Then what, pray tell, do you think is stopping me!?" Her tone is slightly defensive; she doesn't appreciate being psychoanalyzed, much as she may need it right now._

" _I think you're afraid that if you confide in them and let them comfort you, you will only be left more vulnerable when they inevitably leave you like everyone else has. You're afraid that you'll start to rely on them and you will no longer be self-sufficient when you have to be."_

_There's little that Ziva can say to that, because there's a ring of truth to it that even she can recognize. "Maybe," she agrees, her voice smaller now._

" _I thought as much. And here is the point where I succumb to my destiny and do as any rambling old Scot would: I will give you my unsolicited advice. Trust yourself, and trust your friends! You have survived an incredible amount, my dear, and if necessary, you will survive more. Having friends to rely on only makes you stronger."_

_Ziva shakes her head, fighting off renewed feelings of hopelessness—because she very much thinks that Ducky is wrong here. "I do not agree, Ducky."_

" _And you would not be the Ziva David we all know and love if you did. Let me put this another way, hm?_ Vulnerability _only makes you stronger."_

" _In what world does that make sense? It is, at best, paradoxical."_

" _Maybe, but it can still be true! You see it in the news every day—a mother finds inhuman strength to lift a car off of her child. A hiker carries a friend with a broken leg on his back, when yesterday he could barely carry a sleeping bag. A few foolhardy federal agents infiltrate a terrorist camp with little more than a rifle and a last-minute plan, because someone they love is trapped inside." He looks at her pointedly. "We as humans are more than just sinew and bone, Ziva. Our minds influence our bodies and vise versa—can you admit to the proof that you've seen with your own eyes, at least? Having someone to fight for—and letting someone fight for you—is the_ best _way to increase your chances of succeeding at anything!"_

_Ziva considers this and sighs. Though it goes against every thought she was trained to have, she thinks that Ducky has a point… but she's really not sure what to do about it. "How?" is all she can think to say; Ducky seems to understand._

" _The answer is simple, but it isn't easy: stop pushing them away. Let down your guard. I promise that you will not regret it, and you will live a richer life for it."_

" _I would not even know where to begin."_

" _At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I will tell you one more time: i_ _t is done by simply_ trusting _, Ziva! That's all there is to it! Let yourself trust in the people who trust in you."_

" _I_ do _trust them, Ducky."_

" _With your life, certainly. But with your fears, and your pain, and your insecurities?"_

" _I…"_

" _How much have you talked to them, my dear?_ Really _talked to them."_

" _I told them…" Ziva sighs. "I told them what they needed to know."_

" _Maybe you should consider telling them what_ you _need them to know, too."_

* * *

**January 7th, 2021**

Ziva finishes her story with a small shrug. "I eventually began to see that Ducky was right _—_ though putting his advice into practice often proved nearly impossible. After that night, however, I started sleeping again."

Tony looks at her, something unreadable in his expression. "That's good," he acknowledges quietly.

"Yes," she agrees, hesitant, "but why do I feel that there is more you want to say?"

Tony frowns and then sighs, looking troubled. "Would you have done it, if Ducky hadn't walked in? Would you have tried to…"

Ziva had anticipated this question, and she gives him an apologetic look. "I really cannot say," she tells him honestly. "I would like to think that I would have come to my senses before doing something irreversible, but I was not in a healthy place _—_ not that night, and not for months before it."

"I wish I had known at the time."

"I know." Ziva kisses his shoulder in a tired apology. "Part of me thought that Ducky would tell _someone_ about what he saw, if only Gibbs or Vance out of concern for my safety... But he did not, and I was never quite able to tell anyone else myself. It was all I could do to start opening up about other things."

"I guess Ducky thought you weren't a threat to yourself after he talked to you."

"You are probably right."

"Have you ever considered it since? The… the suicide?"

This question is easier, and Ziva shakes her head. "No. Not even… no. I would not have hesitated to sacrifice myself if it was necessary to take out Sahar and protect you and Tali last year, but beyond that… Ducky reminded me that night that I have many people to live for. I have never forgotten that."

Tony nods, relief coloring his expression, and he leans in to press a light kiss to her nose. "Glad to hear it," he says firmly. "I'd hate to have to chase you to the afterlife this time."

That makes Ziva laugh breathlessly; she wouldn't put it past him. "I would not want that, either," she concurs. "You have had to follow me enough for one lifetime already."

"That I have."

After a brief pause, Ziva picks her journal up again and lifts it up. "Did you notice," she starts, changing the subject slightly, "that my talk with Ducky happened on the same date as today, just eleven years ago?"

"That's an odd coincidence."

"Did Gibbs forget to tell you that there is no such thing?"

"Well, he _tried_ to tell me."

Ziva snorts. "On this same date last year, I said goodbye to everyone in Washington and boarded a plane to Paris."

"Okay, _that_ one I knew. Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of the day we got you back." He gives her the crinkly-eyed smile that makes him look young again.

"Yes, and that was a good day… but _January 7th_ was the day that I put aside my fears and decided to come home."

"Hm. Do you think they mean something, all those repeating dates?"

"Somehow, I do. This will sound odd, but I believe that Ducky may be telling me something."

"Doesn't sound odd at all."

"No?"

"Nah. Stranger things have happened, and you know how much Ducky liked to talk. I doubt he'd let death stop him from getting a final word or two in."

Ziva laughs quietly, though the thought sends a renewed pang of grief through her chest. "If anyone could accomplish that, it _would_ be Ducky."

"For sure. What do you think he's trying to tell you?"

"I do not know," Ziva answers, but she's not telling the truth. It's funny how she can almost _hear_ Ducky telling her 'bullshit' in Hebrew again…

Maybe it _is_ a message from their old friend, or maybe it's just her own guilty conscience speaking, but whatever the reason, she knows damn well what Ducky would say now if he was here.

_Let your guard down, Ziva. Tony has long since earned your trust. Let go and finish what you started. Tell him the truth._

Ducky's ghost may have a point.

In telling Tony about that old conversation tonight, Ziva skipped several important parts. She told him what Ducky said to her, but she still has not told him what she said to Ducky _—_ at least not in any detail. She merely summarized that in talking to their old friend, she had explained what happened that summer. Telling her husband any more still seems impossible.

Even now, she's afraid to tell Tony _exactly_ what happened to her in Somalia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang in there, guys! This is by far the darkest chapter. Things will start to look up again after this. :)


	3. In Remembrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this, there will be one more chapter and a short epilogue.

**January 12th, 2021, shortly after Ducky's funeral**

For fifteen minutes now, Ziva has been standing alone beside Ducky's coffin, staring at the glint of afternoon sunlight on the strong metal rods that suspend it above the pit it will soon rest in. The same sunlight warms her face, and there's a distant part of her that's grateful for the unseasonable warmth of the day.

The graveside portion of the funeral service ended forty-five minutes ago, and the David-DiNozzos are the only ones left; somewhere just out of sight, a cemetery caretaker waits respectfully for their departure.

Ziva knows she can't wait here forever, but for now, she feels compelled to linger.

Eight years ago, she buried her father in Israel. That had been difficult and painful, without a doubt, and this afternoon is reminiscent of that ill-fated trip… There is a significant difference, though: unlike with Eli, Ziva has never had conflicting feelings about the elderly doctor.

She hesitated at Eli's funeral, too, but this time, she's not trying to come to terms with loving a father even though he wasn't good to her. This time, she's just taking a few minutes to say goodbye. It's bittersweet, part sadness and part nostalgic fondness.

Some hundred yards away, Tony and Tali chase one another through the grass, and Ziva finds herself watching them as her lips move quietly; there is a comfortable familiarity to the rarely thought-about prayers that she's whispering to herself. The sight of Tali's bright smile, so vibrant and full of energy, is soothing, too. Life goes on.

Maybe Tony can feel Ziva's gaze as she watches, because after a little while, he looks up to meet her eye. He smiles at her, and she smiles back. Then he leans down and says something to Tali, too far away for Ziva to hear what it is; Tali shrugs and nods. Leaving Tali to keep playing by herself, Tony turns and jogs back to where Ziva is still standing.

"Hi," he says warmly when he reaches her.

"Hello," she answers, more subdued but no less affectionate.

"You doing alright over here?"

"Yes… thank you for distracting Tali and giving me time to myself."

Tony shrugs. "Seemed like you needed a moment. Do you still want to be alone?"

Ziva shakes her head. "No. I have done what I needed to do." Tony nods, but he doesn't press her for more information on whatever that was. Still, she feels compelled to elaborate. "I was praying," she explains softly.

Tony rests a comforting hand on her upper back and smiles again, understanding. "I'm sure Ducky would have appreciated that."

"Something tells me that he would… in fact, if he was here, he likely would have recited the words with me. I think there was nothing he did not have significant knowledge of."

They share a quiet laugh, and Ziva gravitates closer; she has found over the years that nearness to Tony is an almost-guaranteed serotonin booster.

"He did love learning," Tony agrees, automatically settling his arm around her shoulders. "That reminds me of something that has always made me laugh… not long after I started as a probie, we were investigating a robbery at the Navy Federal Credit Union. The manager who was our main witness was an immigrant from somewhere in Africa, if I remember right—Ethiopia, maybe? Anyway, as soon as Ducky walked in and saw the man, he just… lit up. He could tell where the manager was from, just by looking at him—beats me how he could figure it out—and he went right up to the guy and started talking to him. Not in English, mind—in whatever language they speak in Ethiopia."

"Amharic," Ziva supplies helpfully, amused.

Tony chuckles. "Honestly, it's no wonder you two got along so well. You were both polyglots."

"That is a nice vocabulary word, Tony," Ziva says, hiding her mirth between a slightly wry tone.

Tony laughs harder, shaking his head. "Hey, there's no need to be condescending. I may not speak as many languages as you do, but I know _some_ things."

Ziva laughs, too. "I was only teasing," she assures him, feeling her spirits lifting further.

"I know, I know." Tony squeezes her shoulders. "Anyway, I wonder where Ducky learned conversational _Amharic_." The last word is said with a wink.

"During his travels, I am sure."

"Undoubtedly. He never was one to sit still."

"No… he was not." Ziva sobers again slightly, that thought sparking a memory. "Perhaps a year after I resigned from NCIS," she adds hesitantly, "he sent me an email—did I ever tell you that?"

"What? No, you didn't! What did he say?"

"He told me that he was hoping to visit Israel—he had done so before, but not for several decades. He was asking for advice on important places to visit. I got the impression, however, that it was really just an excuse to check on me."

"He's not the only one that had the urge to do _that_."

Ziva doesn't know how to reply without apologizing again for things they've already moved on from, so she just reaches up to rest her hand on top of Tony's where it's still settled on her shoulder.

He doesn't seem to mind.

"Did you answer him?" Tony asks curiously, realizing that Ziva isn't going to comment on what he just said.

Ziva shakes her head. "I could not see how replying would do anything other than bring up old pain for everyone. I kept the email, though. I really cannot say why I did."

Tony seems to get it, though. "Sometimes it's nice to know that someone's out there caring about you, no matter where you are. Maybe it makes the world feel a little less lonely," he adds contemplatively.

Ziva knows that he's speaking from experience, and she looks over to where Tali is running around in circles with her arms out, possibly pretending she's an airplane. "What is it that Gibbs said so long ago? 'When you have kids, you're never lonely.'"

"That might be one of the truest things he's ever said."

"I think so, too. Having Tali… well, that saved me during a very difficult time."

"She's pretty good for that. She did it for me, too."

Ziva thinks for the thousandth time about the difficulty Tony faced in the wake of her feigned death nearly five years ago. In a very short time, he found out that she was dead, found out that he had a daughter he'd never met, and resigned from the career that was not only a job to him but also where he found his family. He hadn't just lost Ziva herself; he had, in effect, lost Gibbs, McGee, Abby… everyone who made the navy yard his home-away-from-home.

Including Ducky.

"Hey, Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"We have talked a lot about my grief this week, but we have not talked much about yours. I am sorry for your loss, my love. You knew Ducky for far longer than I did, and I know he was very important to you."

Tony seems exceptionally unconcerned by this, and his arm around her shoulders rises and falls as he shrugs. "I did, and he was, but grief isn't a competition. I promise that I'm dealing with it—I'm just a little more worried about you right now. Loss is hard enough when it isn't just another thing to add to a lifetime already full of goodbyes." He drops a kiss to her forehead. "May his memory be a blessing for you, Ziva," he finishes in a murmur.

Ziva looks up at him, surprised and touched. "Thank you… I am impressed that you are familiar with that phrasing, since it is a Jewish tradition rather than a secular one. I would have expected you to say something closer to 'may he rest in peace.'"

Tony grins. "Gotta keep you on your toes somehow, sweet cheeks," he teases. Then, more serious again, he elaborates. "I learned a lot while you were gone. I figured that Tali deserved to grow up knowing about _your_ background, not just mine, even if you weren't around to teach it to her."

"That was incredibly thoughtful of you, Tony."

"Yeah, well… I guess I should admit that I didn't learn everything _just_ for her. I had other motives, too."

"Oh?"

He tightens his hold on her shoulders. "As soon as we knew that you were alive, I started planning for the day that we'd get to celebrate your culture with _you_ , too."

"You are a man of many surprises," Ziva manages to say through a throat that has suddenly tightened again; she's genuinely moved by his continuous quiet dedication.

"I do my best." Tony rests his chin on top of her head. " _Ha'makom yenahem etkhem betokh she'ar avelei Tziyonvi'Yerushalayim_." His Hebrew is careful and he fumbles a few times, but the words are correct, surprising Ziva again.

What he said is the very traditional mourner's farewell: "May God console you among the other mourners of Zion and Jerusalem."

Ziva is not particularly devout and never has been—in fact, she would consider herself culturally Jewish more than religiously Jewish—but something about hearing those familiar words strikes her in the same way that " _At lo levad_ " did years ago. Maybe it's less because of the spiritual aspect of the blessing and more due to the painstaking effort her husband must have gone through to learn the words—which have no other use to him than in comforting her—but either way, it warms her more than the winter sun can.

Her reaction is abrupt, surprising and alarming Tony: she starts to cry again. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asks quickly, concerned. "Did I say it wrong? If I accidentally insulted you, I'm sorry."

Ziva laughs through her tears. "No, no, it is not that, it is just—"

She's interrupted by the slightly violent arrival of Tali.

The six-and-a-half year old had changed directions in her running to suddenly speed toward her parents; she apparently misjudged the time it would take her to come to a stop, however, so she crashes into them, knocking them both back a step. They break out of their embrace to steady themselves.

"Oops!" Tali says, turning red and grabbing onto Tony's suit jacket to keep from falling over. "Sorry, _Ima_. Sorry, Daddy."

Tony snorts. "Don't worry about it, baby girl."

Tali barely hears him, though, noticing that her mother's cheeks are flushed and wet with tears. "Why are you crying, _Ima_?"

Ziva smiles at their slightly-too-energetic daughter. "All is well, Tali, do not worry. I am a little sad, but I am still a little happy, too."

Tali tilts her head to one side. "How are you sad _and_ happy?"

"I am happy to have you and your _Abba_ , but I also miss my friend Ducky. It is okay to be sad when you miss someone, yes?"

Tali nods. "Daddy has told me that a lot of times. So many times."

Ziva and Tony just chuckle at that. "Do not tell him this, _ahava shelli_ ," Ziva replies in a teasing pseudo-whisper, "because I do not want his head to grow so large that he cannot pull his shirts on anymore, but… _sometimes_ , he says some smart things."

Tali grins, catching on. "Just not very often, right?" she says in the same low voice.

"Does anyone else hear whispering? Because I feel like I hear whispering," Tony interjects loudly, playing along.

Tali giggles. "He's funny, isn't he?" she asks Ziva conspiratorially.

"Yes… _sometimes_."

"Was _Saba_ Ducky funny, too?"

"He very often was. Do you remember him?"

"A little." Tali hesitates slightly, looking from her mother to her father and back again. Then, making a decision, she reaches for Ziva's hand. When Ziva gives it to her, she tugs until Ziva gets the hint and kneels in front of her daughter.

"What is it, _chamuda_?"

"Do you remember when you were gone?"

"Of course I do, Tali."

"I missed you then. D'you know what _Abba_ said, though?"

"No. Do you want to tell me?"

"Yeah. He said you were like a Gordon angel." Over Tali's head, Ziva can see Tony smiling fondly and mouthing 'she means _guardian_ angel.' "He said you were watching over us and protecting us, even if you couldn't come home."

Ziva nods, squeezing her daughter's small hand. " _Abba_ was right. I _was_."

"Well, I think maybe _Saba_ Ducky is like a Gordon angel now, too. So don't cry, _Ima_. He's still watching, he just can't come home."

The simple optimistic innocence of that statement brings Ziva to gentle tears again, and Tali frowns. "I said _don't_ cry, _Ima_ , not _start_ to cry!" She reaches up with clumsy fingers to wipe at Ziva's cheeks.

Ziva draws Tali into a hug, thinking that the girl might just be right. She has suffered too many losses in her life, and this first loss after reuniting with her family could have threatened to push her back into a darker place… but as much as she misses Ducky, and as much as she wishes she could have a chance to talk to him one more time, she's less alone now than she's ever been.

That's a comfort, indeed.


	4. Letting Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter, but tomorrow, I'll post a short epilogue. The first three chapters were for one prompt, and this chapter was for a separate one: less than 1.5k words (this came to 1,499) and including the following: digging fingers into fresh dirt, stepping in something squishy, and orange sunsets.

**January 12th, 2021, eveningtime**

They spend the afternoon at an informal wake at Gibbs' house. Everyone they know and love is there, and it's cathartic to catch up with their adoptive family—despite the heavy occasion. The children, mostly too young to really understand what's going on, play together exuberantly as the hours pass. Tali is overjoyed to spend time with her "cousins," Victoria, Morgan, and Johnny.

As the afternoon wears on and people start to leave, though, Tali is still going strong. She'll certainly crash once they get her in bed, but for now, she has let the busy day hype her into new levels of excitement.

She's restlessly bouncing as they strap her into their rental car after saying their goodbyes, and Tony and Ziva pause before getting in themselves, looking at each other.

"She's practically vibrating. Exactly how many of Abby's Ducky cookies did she eat?"

"More than she needed, that is for sure."

"Do you think we should take her somewhere before we go back to the hotel? She needs to get the rest of her energy out or she's going to turn into a hellion tonight once she starts fighting sleep."

"Yes… I think we should," Ziva agrees, pinching the bridge of her nose to hide her reluctant amusement; through the back seat window, Tali can be seen puffing up her cheeks and squishing them with her hands to make what she calls "pooty booty noises."

Tony is most certainly to blame for that one.

* * *

They end up at Anacostia Park, exactly where Ari parked and used a rifle to fire into Abby's lab; neither Tony nor Ziva mentions that. After fifteen years, it's time to make new memories here.

They aim for a playground near Pennsylvania Avenue Bridge, but Tali finds something that she wants to play with far more… mud. Today's sun has dried up most of what was left behind by yesterday's rain, but there are distinctly wet patches left in the shadier areas.

Tali is still dressed up for the funeral, and her parents' first impulse is to stop her from destroying her formal outfit… but they exchange glances and decide without needing to discuss it that Tali will be fine. She'll grow out of the dress sooner or later anyway, and, well… life is short.

They give her the go ahead then, and with a gleeful expression on her face, she immediately squishes her feet in. It takes her only minutes to be covered in goo from head to toe.

As she plays, Tony and Ziva find a drier spot to sit themselves; it's still strangely warm for January, and it's pleasant to lounge on the winter-yellow grass.

At first, they're side-by-side, but between jet lag and several days of heavy emotion, Ziva is worn out. Eventually, she moves to lay on her back, her head resting against one of Tony's outstretched legs. They talk about inconsequential things, simply decompressing.

There's something wonderful about being here again, now happily married and openly affectionate; this is the first time they've been in Washington together since Ziva resigned from NCIS almost eight years ago. Having Tali here, her zest for life as visible as the navy yard across the river, is proof of something hopeful: even the most painful losses and changes can result in beauty. If not for everything her parents went through together, Tali would not exist.

She is and always will be a saving grace, a light at the end of the tunnel, a reason to hope.

Tali makes everything worth it.

* * *

When the sun starts to set, the David-DiNozzos are still in the park, but things are quieter now. Tali, finally exhausted, is curled up with her parents, nestled under Ziva's left arm and snoring softly. Her parents have fallen into companionable silence, too.

With her free hand, Ziva idly plays with the soft dirt under the grass, letting fine particles sift through the cracks between her fingers as she grabs a handful and releases it. Tony mimics her movements, making her smile; his fingers, however, drift through her hair rather than the earth underneath them. She glances up to see him watching her, contentment written across his features.

"Can I tell you something?" he murmurs, his voice soft to avoid waking Tali.

"Of course."

"I love you."

Ziva smiles at him involuntarily—just as she always does when he says those words.

"I love you, too."

* * *

The sunset turns out to be an exceptionally brilliant one, its oranges and pinks dancing on the slow-moving river below so that the whole world is lit up as the sun fades away. Ziva watches it with heavy eyes, starting to feel the pull of drowsiness urging her to join Tali in sleep. It's safe to rest with Tony watching over them.

As she drifts off, though, something catches her gaze. In the shade of a tree near the water, backlit by the sunset behind him, someone is watching. The sight _should_ be alarming—the man appears to be staring right at them—but Ziva only feels the familiar warmth of unexpectedly seeing an old friend.

There's a reason for that. Everything about the man—his pose, his silhouette topped by the shape of a safari fedora, even his small stature—is reminiscent of how Ducky looked in the autopsy doorway when he found her on her darkest night. It has to be a coincidence; Ziva knows that Ducky is gone. The resemblance is so striking, though, that for the briefest moment, she thinks it might actually _be_ her old friend.

Then he turns, dying sunlight illuminating his shadowed face. Ziva _must_ be imagining him, but…

It _is_ Ducky.

He meets Ziva's eye and smiles kindly at her; once he has her attention, he starts to speak, his lips moving soundlessly, and she can somehow understand what he's saying: ' _Let go, Ziva. Tell him._ '

Shouldn't she know by now to listen to him?

Maybe she'd been right when Ducky died, thinking that he wanted to tell her something—or maybe his memory is only inspiring the inevitable conclusion that she has long avoided. Either way, she understands the message: it's time to let Tony help carry her burdens.

She gives the image of her friend a slight nod, smiling faintly; she can feel his approval. Tipping his hat and winking at her, Ducky offers one last smile before turning away to face the sunset.

Then Ziva blinks, and he's gone.

She closes her eyes for a moment, saying a final goodbye before looking up at her husband again.

"Tony?"

"Mm?"

"If you are ready to listen, I…"

"I'm always ready, Ziva." His hand in her hair moves to rest on her cheek.

Ziva nods, appreciative. "Then I think I am ready to talk about some things that I have kept to myself for far too long. I need… I need to let go."

Tony seems to understand; he goes back to running his fingers through her hair. "I'm listening, sweet cheeks."

She takes a deep breath, lets it out, and starts to speak.

* * *

Ziva talks until the sun is gone and the stars are visible; it's getting colder, but she doesn't notice the dropping temperature until Tony shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over Tali. He doesn't say a word, though; he only listens, letting Ziva say what she needs to say.

She begins with Somalia, not going into detail but no longer shying away from the truth. Even a decade later, it's painful to talk about, but when each successive word hurts less than the one before it, she starts to realize that there's more she needs to get out:

The first Tali, gone too soon.

Ari, who she still mourns despite who he became.

Sahar, and the search that drove Ziva to desolation, restless and lonely.

With every old scar she gives a name to, she breathes easier, and by the time she falls silent, she feels… empty; the loud chaos of a mind brimming with ancient pain and constant anxiety has gone quiet. It feels like... absolution, perhaps. Even in death, Ducky has reminded her to trust, to let herself live freely without succumbing to fear.

For a year now, Ziva has been with her family, taking happiness one day at a time—because it has always been in the back of her mind that this, too, will soon be ripped away from her. Now she understands how that fearful conviction is a product of every haunting memory that she's kept guarded. It's time to change that.

She's ready to let go, or at least begin to—and when she finishes her tales of old heartbreak, Tony still looks at her the way he always has. There's no pity, no fear, no discomfort... In his eyes, she sees only love.

It's freeing.

When they eventually pack up to leave the park, Ziva abandons burdens of bygone grief to patches of dead grass and a chilly night sky.

She's ready to look forward.


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this epilogue, the story ends. From the bottom of my heart, thank you to everyone who read and especially to those who reviewed. You all make me happy. :)

**Ziva's journal**

_January 7th, 2022_

_There is a reason that I have not penned an entry in quite some time; I no longer have great need of a place to write in order to sort through my feelings. Instead, I have become rather adept at simply talking things out with my loved ones._

_One year ago today, my dear friend Ducky passed away, and his death brought with it a much-needed reminder of things he told me when he was alive. I miss him deeply, and I suspect that I always will… grief is certainly not linear, nor does it have an end. I am not without comfort, however, and the pain associated with missing Ducky does not stop me from remembering him with deep fondness. It is traditional in Judaism to forgo the secular platitude of "rest in peace" in favor of a wish that focuses on the living: "may his memory be a blessing."_

_Every time I choose to tell Tony about something difficult, I can feel Ducky there with me, always encouraging me and nudging me in the right direction… and then I feel a surge of bravery, enough to share whatever has been weighing on me. Ducky's memory really_ is _a blessing._

_Furthermore, Ducky was right so many years ago: Tony always listens._

_I am lucky to have Tony, and I was fortunate to have Ducky, too._

_If tradition followed the Gregorian calendar rather than the Hebrew calendar, today would mark the end of the period of Yud Bet Chodesh* as well as Ducky's first Yahrzeit**. Since this day has so much significance for me already, I decided to forgo tradition and mark those days today anyway. I taught Tali to light Yahrzeit candles informally at home, and she seemed fascinated by the idea. I think she will be willing to help me next year, too; maybe then I will take her with me to a local synagogue so she can become familiar with the Mourner's Kaddish***._

_She is now seven-and-a-half years old, and we are more proud of her every day. As she grows, however, so does her curiosity, and she is beginning to ask more questions. Tony and I have talked many times about how much to tell her, and though her queries are sometimes difficult and painful, I find myself able to do my part in giving her answers. I have come a long way, and every time I speak, I feel lighter of soul._

_In this chapter of my life, most things I think and feel and experience are light, too._

_On that subject, I have only one thing left to write… I believe that this will be my final journal entry._

_January 7th feels to be a fitting day to say goodbye to the woman I was through my years of writing; this has come to be a day that means goodbye in many other ways, too. When I began to journal so many years ago, it was in a desperate attempt to organize the emotions and thoughts that I could not display in my work, and the act of writing became a great comfort to me. There were times that I even made connections that I otherwise would not have, simply because I wrote down the things I intuited. Writing also became something of a safety blanket, however, and it is one that I no longer need._

_I may be silly and sentimental to say goodbye to a mere object, but these pages served as a source of solace over the years. Now, I am fortunate enough to have family and friends that support me in the same way, and I wish to be fully present in my interactions with them._

_In that way, this final entry must serve as a farewell._

_I am happy now, and I have reached hard-won peace alongside my family. That is all I have ever wanted; now I can glance at old journals as they line our bookshelves, remembering the days and years and people that they represent and that I have left behind, and I can smile. The tranquility that eluded me for so much of my life has now found a home in a small, loud, messy, and warm Parisian apartment._

_For that, some of the thanks must go to you, my old paper friends._

_All my love, and goodbye._

_Z_

* * *

*12-month mourning period in Judaism, only applicable when mourning the death of a parent (but in this case, only semi-observantly applying to the death of an honorary parent/grandparent)

**Yiddish word used among Jews to mark the anniversary of a loved one's passing, observed each year following death

***Traditional Aramaic prayer said in honor of the dead, repeated at different points throughout the mourning periods and also during many prayer services. It's meant to be said with a minyan, not alone, though there are exceptions to this rule depending on the necessity of certain circumstances.

* * *

_fin._


End file.
